


Draco Wants

by Ladycat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time was accidental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draco Wants

The first time was accidental. A flurry of limbs and torsos and the unfortunate meeting therein, ending with a resounding _smack_. Draco immediately froze, eyes gone wintry grey. It wasn’t just the aghast _no_ that held his body rigid. It was that perfect combination of surprise, disgust, and the tiniest, most effective bit of disgust. This wasn’t the red-faced, wild flailing that everyone knew was really a flag waving whoever Draco was targeting on. No, this was the calmly possessed authority that seemed a genetic Malfoy trait, able to communicate a deeply felt response with only a single look. Draco was _not_ pleased, and was silently informing everyone in the room the bloody, agonizing death promised if the prior event were to reoccur.

Anyone other than Harry would have been terrified.

Harry knew better.

It’d taken far too long, but Harry had finally learned patience. Oh, not a lot of it. He was too impulsive, and had that impulsiveness work for him too many times to really allow it to be tempered. But he’d learned not to jump without looking _every_ time, and he kept that hard-won lesson fresh in his mind.

“So,” he said, “Ron. The goblins?”

Ron’s jaw swung slightly as he looked away from Draco over to Harry. “Er?”

“Your story about work?” he prompted. It wasn’t the subtlest of gambits, but Harry fully admitted that when it came to strategy, he’d best let Hermione do it for him. Tactics, though. Tactics he could manage. Especially with certain ... adversaries. “You were saying?”

“I was? Oh, right.” Ron didn’t speak, though, instead looking back over to Draco—who had lost the _die, you pathetic worm underneath my boot_ expression in favor of quiet confusion. Well, to Harry it was quiet confusion. To Ron, it probably still looked murderous. “I was.”

“Heavens, Potter, don’t get him started on that dreary story again,” Pansy said. It wasn’t an interruption so much as a way of dealing with the awkward pause Ron had created. Glaring at the tall figure beside her, Pansy pushed mashed potato irritably around her plate with her fork. “Stories about goblins are _never_ entertaining. Add in a perfectly plebeian description worthy of a brain-addled four year old, and I’m afraid I’m going to pass out from boredom.”

“Goblins are too entertaining!” came Ron’s predictable response. “And anyway, you like hearing about them fine when it comes to the money they pay me.”

“Darling, that’s not about _goblins_. It’s about _money_. An entirely different subject altogether.”

“Oh,” Hermione said suddenly, “Pansy, you’ll be able to come shopping with me, won’t you?” She patted her rounded belly fondly. “I think it’s time I started buying clothes for this little one.”

Pansy’s aristocratic disdain melted, her smile warm and wide as she looked at the woman across from her. “Silly thing. Of course I’ll go shopping with you, but you know you can have Bella’s early things. Linky’s already packing them up for you.”

“Oh, no, really, that’s very kind of you—”

Four years ago—hell, even more than that—Hermione’s words would have been stiffly formal, aware of the insult and trying very hard not to be visibly offended by it. Now, there was no insult at all and only flustered pleasure in Hermione’s voice. Pansy shook her head. “Hush, you silly woman,” she repeated. “It’s not like my daughter the weed has any use for infant clothing, and given how fast she grew, most of them haven’t even been worn. Why bother buying new?”

Draco snorted. “Of _course_ you buy new. That’s the point—Pansy, darling, I think motherhood has addled your brains.”

Everyone in the room took a half a breath to glance at Ron—but while his buttons remained as obvious as ever, he could at least handle them now with a bit of humor. Mostly. Sometimes. Tonight, Ron gave Draco a grin that was only slightly strained while Pansy smirked and said, “Mm, probably the marriage more than the motherhood. Bella’s a sweet child, with none of her father’s stubbornness at all.”

Ron took his cue and leaned forward to give his wife a short, chaste kiss. “Oh, Bella’s all her mother’s daughter,” he said wickedly—and then ducked, when Pansy attempted to stab him with her fork.

Harry watched, smiling slightly, as his friends continued to taunt and tease each other. Ron and Pansy were always good for a distraction, especially since Dean wouldn’t allow Hermione as much activity as she was used to. She tired easily as her pregnancy advanced, something everyone in the room was well aware of and tried to accommodate—probably the reason for the Punch and Judy act Mr. and Mrs. Weasly were putting on.

Or maybe that was for Harry’s benefit. Ron was about as observant as he had been in school, but Pansy knew Draco very, very well. It was possible she’d seen what Harry had.

Dinner took several hours more, but by then Draco had fully recovered and things went as smoothly as they always did. He played the charming host, something Harry had no skill or tolerance for, seeing Ron and Pansy off by floo and calling a cab for Dean and Hermione—and somehow shushing her disgruntlement that she could no longer floo _or_ apparate any longer. Hermione took to being magicless and virtually bedridden very poorly. Very.

Footsteps proceeded Draco back into the kitchen. “Harry, love, is there some way of speeding up a pregnancy? Pansy’s was bad enough, but Hermione’s turning into an absolute terror.”

“Whining and generally acting frustrated at limitations is a terror?” Harry asked mildly.

Draco gave him a look down his nose. “Yes,” he said, ignoring the temper tantrums he still had, ones that put Bella’s to shame, “it is. I don’t like it, Potter. Make it go away.”

This was Draco’s playful side, although it’d taken Harry far too long to recognize it as such. Back in school, he’d never seen anything but the haughty demeanor. Now, he understood _why_ that nose was held so high and just what danced behind cloudy grey eyes.

Spelling the last of the dishes clean, Harry advanced slowly. He knew why Draco was acting so playfully—and had no intention of letting it distract him. Invading Draco’s personal space, he walked the two of them against a wall, his hands trapping Draco against him. “No,” he said, pleasant and calm.

Draco’s sneer faltered just the tiniest amount. “You won’t alter the laws of nature and magic for me?” he demanded.

Harry felt himself smile and allowed it. “Did you think I didn’t notice?” he asked slowly.

The sneer lost a little more of its power. “That she’s pregnant? I’m not sure how anyone can miss it. If the bulging stomach doesn’t give it away, then Dean hovering like she’s going to break any moment should give even the stupidest a clue.”

Leaning forward until Draco’s eyes became one, their noses almost touching, Harry said, “I noticed, Draco. I saw the squirm and the flush—and I know exactly what that means. So I suggest you run. Now.”

Draco ran. Well, first he slammed his way out of Harry’s arms, nearly dislocating Harry’s shoulder in the process, but _then_ he ran. Harry waited a full thirty seconds before giving chase. Both of them were still very strong and fit, regular exercise and the pick-up quidditch games they played keeping them trim. Draco was definitely faster than Harry—they never raced anything but brooms because of it—but Harry wanted Draco to have a head start. He wanted Draco to believe that he’d escape it.

Because then Draco would go upstairs, where Harry was already waiting.

Draco shouted when strong arms caught him around his middle, pushing him towards the bed. “The _fuck_ ,” he snarled. His body bucked and twisted for all he was worth. “You were right behind me! I heard you!”

Harry grunted when he got an elbow in his solar-plexus, hurling himself onto the bed and somehow keeping Draco over his lap at the same time. He was quite certain he’d never be able to repeat the move. “It’s called magic, Draco,” he gasped. “You should try it, sometime.”

Draco’s response was nothing but swear words. He continued to struggle so fiercely that for a moment, Harry doubted himself—but for only that moment. The evidence of how much Draco _didn’t_ like this was rather ... impressive. Clucking sadly, Harry used Draco’s struggles to help yank Draco’s robes up, and then let his hand fall.

_Smack!_

Draco shouted and went rigid. “Mother _fucker_ ,” he swore.

Harry’s response was another four good swats, the last on the backs of Draco’s naked thighs. “Are you going to stop struggling?” he asked pleasantly.

“How _dare_ you!”

Sighing as if this pained him, Harry yanked down the black silk boxers that covered Draco’s arse and began a thorough spanking. There was a rhythm to it, one he fell into on instinct alone. He’d bring the flat of his palm down, listening as Draco either cried out or inhaled sharply or let his voice hitch in his throat. Only then would he lift his hand back up, letting another hard smack turn Draco’s arse red. Eventually, he added a little rub to the bruised flesh, enjoying the way it made Draco squirm and arch into his touch.

“You thought I missed this, didn’t you?” he said as he worked. “It _was_ an accident, back in the kitchen. Just so you know. But I was close, Draco. More than close enough to feel the way you _twitched_ when it happened. You liked it. Why didn’t you tell me, hm? Why’d you keep it a secret?”

Draco’s arse was a bright, fiery red now and he was sniffling even as he arched up into each swat. “D-didn’t know,” he said.

Harry loved to make Draco stutter. It was something he’d confirmed that only _he_ could make Draco do—and that was a conversation he never wanted to have with Zabini again—testament to how far Draco would let himself go in Harry’s hands. It made him harder still and he shifted, widening his thighs to allow his own erection some space while trapping Draco’s against his thigh. “I think you’re lying,” he said. “I don’t like it when you lie, Draco.” His hand was starting to sting, his arm burning from the unusual exertion, but Harry had no intention of stopping yet. He began hitting a little bit harder—and grinned when the sniffles turned into choked-off sobs. 

“F-fuck you, Har-r-r-ry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asked again. “And don’t lie, Draco—I can do this for hours.”

Draco instantly moaned. “H-hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me as much as I love you.” Harry began concentrating on the backs of Draco’s thighs, the steady slapping a sharp background to their conversation. “Why didn’t you tell me, Draco? Did you think it was too deviant? Didn’t want me to know that you were a bad little boy? How much you wanted to be ... punished? That you wanted to sob and cry out while I fuck your bright red arse?”

Harry’s jeans were sopping now, precome staining both his crotch and all over the top of his right thigh. His words came easily, the product of knowing Draco intimately for over eight years now, rather than a firm knowledge of what Draco wanted. He didn’t think he was wrong, though.

“Tell me,” he ordered, smacking hardest yet. “And don’t you _dare_ lie.”

Draco held out for five more smacks. “Yes!” he sobbed, his face as red as his arse. “I w-wanted th-this.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“I w-wasn’t sure if y-you—if you w-w-w—”

Abruptly, Harry stopped smacking. Draco whimpered, but Harry was too busy muttering three specific spells, rolling Draco onto his back, and sliding deep inside him to care. He fucked roughly, pushing Draco’s weight onto his shoulders so that his abused arse was tormented by Harry’s weight and wiry curls. Draco was all-out crying now, sniffling like the little boy Harry had seen in the bathroom so long ago—only now there was none of the despair and heartbreak that had driven Draco back then. Now, Draco was whimpering, gasping out _please_ and _more_ and _fuck, yes, harder_ and _love you_ , something he only said when lost like this, his hips arching up to meet Harry’s every thrust. His eyes were wild whenever he opened them, the grey lost in an all-consuming black.

Experience and a flexibility that Harry worked very hard for allowed Harry to rest his weight on a single hand, the other now free to grab Draco’s cock and start jerking it. “Has there ever been _anything_ ,” he panted, “that I’ve said no to?”

Draco jerked twice, making a sharp, shrill noise as he came all over Harry’s hand and his own belly. Harry continued fucking him for a few moments longer, enjoying the way Draco’s arse flexed and tightened around his cock, before spilling his own release inside Draco’s body.

“Get o-off m-m-me.”

Snuggling a little closer, Harry said nothing. He wasn’t suffocating Draco, just trapping him in an uncomfortable position—which was the point.

“Harry! Will you bloody well g-get off me? My thighs are starting to cramp and m-my—”

“Mm mm.” Harry shifted just enough to level a glare at Draco and push his glasses to a less awkward position on his nose. “ _Not_ your arse, Draco,” he said.

The bravado instantly crumbled, Draco’s lower lip trembling as a fresh wave of hiccuping sobs were fought down. “Wh-what?”

“My arse.” Another shift and Harry somehow got a hand on Draco’s burning arse cheeks and rubbed it probably more roughly than he should have, given the way Draco jerked, inhaling sharply. Draco’s cock appreciated it, at least. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Trying to blink away the daze of renewing lust, Draco narrowed his eyes as he looked up at Harry. He was still sniffling, his face streaked with tears and a lingering flush, but he was slowly getting control of himself despite Harry’s distractions. “I d-did,” he said. “But m-maybe I don’t any l-longer.”

It was so easy to lightly smack where he’d been rubbing. “Bad boy,” Harry told his lover. “Obviously, this wasn’t punishment enough. Do I need to break out those magicked cuffs, Draco? You know, the ones you bought so you could suck _my_ cock as long as you wanted?”

Draco flushed at Harry’s raised eyebrow, but the slowly hardening cock that pressed against Harry’s belly spoke more eloquently than any of the stutters Draco could have produced. Well, perhaps more _accurately_ , anyway. Draco submitted willingly when Harry leaned down for a long, slow kiss, his neck straining to follow when Harry abruptly pulled away. “I—”

Harry pinched the arse he’d been rubbing. “You, Draco, are a very bad boy. Needs a lesson. And do you know what that lesson is, love?”

Dazed again as Harry’s fingers crept between Draco’s cheeks to rub, Draco shook his head.

“ _Tell me_ when you want something.”

Draco froze—and then, slowly, smiled. “B-but what’d b-b-be the point th-then?” he whispered, smiling for the first time since their guests had left.

Grinning just as wickedly back, Harry leaned down for another kiss—and silently _accio_ ed the cuffs from their hiding place, the cuffs closing around wrists and ankles that pulled Draco into a taut, spread-eagled position. “Insolent brat,” Harry intoned as he sat up, rubbing at the flaky mess drying on his belly. “You _definitely_ need another lesson. Perhaps more than a few.”

“Oh, l-like you could really d-do _that_.”

Draco’s words were challenging, the sneer on swollen lips as familiar as the first time Harry had ever seen him—but the love in his eyes, and the trust in his relaxed body told an entirely different story. The words never came easily for them, but here, like this Harry didn’t _have_ to say that he loved Draco. Draco already knew it and wanted to _feel_ it.

And Harry, as always, obliged him.


End file.
